In the last week of August 1989, a research boat called the Grailing held position over a patch of Lake Superior 17 miles off Whitefish Point in Canadian water and lowered a small machine over the side on a cable.
It was a robot, more or less, a box the size of a suitcase with thrusters and lights and two cameras set side by side like a pair of eyes so that what it saw could be assembled into a picture with depth.
It went down through the green into the dark 500 ft.
And when its lights found the bottom, the people on the boat leaned toward the monitor the way people always do when a camera reaches the floor of a place like this.
They were there for 3 days.
There were scientists from the government and from a university and a crew from a magazine and a man from a museum on the shore who’d been waiting 14 years for a close look.
The robot went where they sent it, along a steel hull, up a wall, through a doorway, and it came back with something that none of them had gone down to find.
I’m not going to tell you what yet, because the whole reason that small moment on a monitor on a boat in 1989 still gets argued about 37 years later is what had happened 14 years before and what it had done to the people on the shore.
To understand why a few seconds of grainy video can be chilling, you need to understand what nobody had been able to see.
Let me show you.
Start with the ship because the song has made it a legend.
And a legend is a different thing from a ship.
The Edund Fitzgerald was launched in June 1958 at River Rouge, Michigan outside Detroit.
And when she went into the water, she was the largest vessel on the Great Lakes, 729 ft long, 75 wide.
A straight deck or carrier, which means a long flat box of a ship with a pilot house at the front, an engine room at the back, and in between 21 hatches opening into three enormous holds.
She was built to do one thing.
Carry iron ore in the form of pellets called tachinite from the mines at the western end of Lake Superior down to the steel mills at the other end of the lakes and go back empty and do it again from the spring thaw until the ice closed the locks in December.
She did it for 17 seasons.
She set records for tonnage.
Her captains made a habit of piping music over her loudspeakers as she passed through the locks at Sue St.
Marie and the boat watchers on the shore came to know her by name.
She was in the small world of the lakes a celebrity, the pride of the American flag, the company called her.
On the afternoon of the 9th of November 1975, she left Superior, Wisconsin with 26,000 tons of tachinite in her holds bound for a mill near Detroit.
Her captain was Ernest Msurley, 63, with more than 40 years on the lakes on what was to be one of the last trips of his career.
Her crew numbered 28, [music] 29 aboard in all.
I want to name a few of them because the song turns them into a number.
Ernest Msurley, the captain, 63.
His first mate, John McCarthy, 62, another lifer.
The chief engineer, George Hall, 60.
And at the other end, watchmen and deck hands in their early 20s.
Some on their first full season with their whole lives ahead of them on a ship that was supposed to be the safest on the lakes.
Cooks, oilers, wipers, a cadet.
29 men from towns across the Great Lakes states who would have been home for Christmas in a month.
The weather forecast was bad and got worse.
A storm was coming up across the lake from the southwest.
And by the next morning, the Fitzgerald and another freighter following behind her, the Arthur M.
Anderson, had agreed to take the long way round up along the Canadian shore to put the land between themselves and the wind.
It didn’t help.
By the afternoon of the 10th, the two ships were in a gale with winds over 50 knots and gusts far higher in snow with waves running to 25 ft and more.
At about half 3 in the afternoon, Msurley radioed the Anderson.
He’d lost a fence rail.
Two vents were gone.
He had a list.
He was running both pumps.
The Anderson’s captain, Bernie Cooper, asked if he had the pumps going.
Mixurly said, “Yes, both of them.”
A little later, the Fitzgerald lost both of her radars, and from then on, she was running blind with the Anderson calling her position to her by radio and the Fitzgerald steering on the Anderson’s directions toward the shelter of Whitefish Bay, 10 mi ahead of the Anderson, in the dark, in the snow with no radar and a [music] list.
And there was one more cruelty in the evening.
Before the end, another ship radioed to say that the light and the radio beacon at Whitefish Point, the mark every captain steers for in that corner of the lake, had gone dark in a power failure.
The one fixed point the Fitzgerald might have found in the snow was out.
She was steering for a shelter she couldn’t see by a light that wasn’t there on the word of a ship 10 mi behind.
At about 10 7, the Anderson’s first maid called the Fitzgerald to warn her about a ship ahead and asked how she was doing.
We are holding our own,” Mixurly said.
Those are the last words anyone heard from the Edund Fitzgerald.
A few minutes later, the Anderson’s radar, which had been showing her as a blip 10 mi ahead, showed [music] nothing.
No distress call, no flare, no radio.
One sweep, she was there, and the next she wasn’t.
Cooper called the Coast Guard.
It took time to be believed, and the Coast Guard had no ships that could put out in that weather.
So they asked Cooper to turn the Anderson around and go back into the storm to look.
He did.
He found two damaged lifeboats and an inflatable raft and some oars and oil on the water.
No people.
Think about what Cooper did.
He’d just brought his own ship with his own crew through the same storm that had taken the Fitzgerald into the lee of Whitefish Bay to safety.
And the Coast Guard asked him to turn around and go back out into it in the dark with the waves still running to search for a ship that had vanished from his radar an hour before.
He went.
He told his crew what he was doing and he went.
One other freighter followed him.
The Anderson spent the night in that storm looking for survivors and found a torn lifeboat and came back.
There’s a reason the men who sailed the lake speak of Bernie Cooper the way they do.
29 men, not one body was ever recovered.
I want to sit on that for a second because it’s the thing that makes every subsequent frame of underwater video matter.
On the ocean, the sea gives back its dead.
Superior doesn’t.
The water at the bottom is a few degrees above freezing, cold enough that the bacteria that would make a body float never get going.
So, whatever goes down stays down.
29 families in Wisconsin and Michigan and Ohio and Minnesota and Ontario had a date and a storm and a last radio message and nothing to bury.
And they had a question that nobody could answer.
What happened?
Because nobody saw it.
That’s the strangeness of the Fitzgerald.
She wasn’t alone.
The Anderson was 10 mi behind watching her on radar, talking to her by voice.
And in the space between two sweeps of that radar, in the dark, she went from a ship holding her own to nothing at all.
There was no mayday.
There was no sign that the crew had tried to launch a boat.
Whatever happened happened fast enough that 29 experienced sailors never got a word out.
And think about the arithmetic of a loaded ore carrier.
26,000 tons of tachinite is heavier than the ship that carries it.
Loaded, the Fitzgerald rode with her deck only a few feet above the water.
By design, so that in a big sea, the waves didn’t break against her, they came aboard and ran the length of her and poured off the other side.
A ship like that has very little reserve.
Lose a few feet of freeboard to flooding and the waves are no longer running over the deck.
[music] They’re burying it.
The margin between holding your own and gone on a loaded laker in a November gale is measured in feet of water in the holds.
4 days later, a Navy aircraft flying magnetic sweeps found her on the lake floor in 530 ft of water in two pieces.
The following May, the Coast Guard brought in the Navy’s Curve 3, an unmanned vehicle on a cable, a camera on a tether, and spent 9 days on the wreck.
12 dives, 56 hours on the bottom, over 43,000 ft of videotape, and nearly 900 photographs.
And the first thing the vehicle established was that this was her, the [music] name on the hull.
The second was what the lake floor looked like.
The bow section, about 276 ft of the ship, sits upright.
The pilot house is intact.
The stern section, some 250 ft, lies upside down 170 ft away.
Between them, there’s a field of twisted steel and tachinite pellets where the middle of the ship, some 200 ft of her, simply isn’t.
It’s been crushed and scattered into the debris.
And in all those hours of tape, the CURV saw no one.
The Coast Guard’s report records it in a single line.
During the survey, no bodies were observed.
29 men, a ship broken open, 56 hours of camera time, and not one of them in the frame.
For the families, that was its own kind of answer, and its own kind of silence.
The lake had them.
It wasn’t showing them.
And in the mud, the curve found very little else it could read.
The Coast Guard’s own report says it plainly, “The mud hampered the survey.
It hid the details.
And every time the vehicle moved, it stirred the bottom into a cloud.
They could see that hatch covers were missing or damaged.
They could see the two sections.
They could not see how it had happened.
And here is where the argument began, and it hasn’t ended.
In 1977, the Coast Guard published its findings.
Its theory was that the Fitzgerald’s hatch covers hadn’t been properly secured, that water had gotten into the holds through them during hours of pounding, that the ship had slowly lost buoyancy until one or two big waves put her bow under and she dove for the bottom without ever coming up and broken too when she hit.
The company that owned her rejected that, and so did the men who sailed the lakes.
Hatch covers on a ship like that weigh 7 tons each.
A missing one would have been obvious to a captain with 40 years experience and Msurley never mentioned one.
The Lake Carriers Association, the industry’s own body, put forward a different story that the Fitzgerald had passed over a shaw near Caribou Island, a shallow spot called Six Fathom Shaw and torn her bottom open on it without knowing and been flooding from below ever since.
Her list, her lost vents, her pumps running all fit that too.
The Shaw Theory had a witness of sorts, and it was Cooper.
He’d been watching the Fitzgerald on his radar that afternoon as the two ships passed Caribou Island, and he’d said to his mate at the time that she was closer to the Shaw than he’d have wanted to be, closer than the Anderson.
He couldn’t say she’d touched it.
Nobody could.
But a captain with that much experience worried about another ship’s track in real time is not nothing.
And it was about half an hour later that Msurley radioed to say he had a list.
The National Transportation Safety Board looked at the same evidence and split.
The majority agreed with the Coast Guard, more or less, flooding through the hatches.
One member dissented and wrote that the Shaw explained the facts better.
So, the two federal bodies that investigated the sinking couldn’t fully agree with each other, let alone with the industry.
A third theory, which has never gone away, is the simplest and the hardest to prove.
That the lake killed her.
Three enormous waves in a row, the kind the sailors call the three sisters, hitting a ship already low in the water and driving her bow under before she could recover.
The Anderson’s captain reported taking exactly such waves that evening and watching them roll on ahead of him toward where the Fitzgerald was.
So there were three stories.
Bad hatches, a shaw, the waves, and the only witness that could settle it was lying in two pieces in the mud, 530 ft down in the dark.
In 1980, Jean Michelle Kustoau’s team took a twoman submarine down to her as part of a film about the St.
Lawrence.
The film used a few seconds of the wreck.
Not much was learned except that the Kustoau divers came away saying they thought she had broken on the surface and sunk slowly, which was the opposite of what the Coast Guard thought.
And then 9 years passed and the technology changed.
Which brings me back to the Grailing in August 1989 and the robot with two eyes.
The expedition was organized by Michigan Sea Grant, a university program and it drew a crowd.
The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, the National Geographic Society, the Army Corps of Engineers, the Michigan Department of Natural Resources, and [music] the Great Lakes Shipwreck Historical Society, the Small Museum at Whitefish Point, whose director had been working toward this for years.
The machine they sent down was a mini rover, a commercial remotely operated vehicle small enough for two people to lift with a tether back to the boat and a pair of cameras fixed side by side so that the footage could be viewed in three dimensions.
The idea was simple.
The Curve in 1976 had taken flat pictures of a shape in the mud.
The Mini Rover would take pictures you could look around.
Depth, relationships, the way a piece of twisted steel sat against another.
For an investigator trying to read how a ship had broken, that [music] mattered.
The dives ran from the 22nd of August to the 25th.
3 days of good weather, which on Superior in August is a gift.
And the robot went down and came up and went down again.
Think about the limits of it.
A machine on a cable flying by thrusters in water where the mud rises at a touch around a wreck that’s two football fields of torn steel in the dark.
The lights reach a few yards.
Every pass is a stripe of a picture.
The three-dimensional footage was the point because for the first time, an investigator could see not just that a plate was bent, but how it was bent, which way the force had come from, how one piece lay against another.
The mini rover was turning the wreck from a photograph into a model.
14 years late.
Here’s what the people watching the monitor saw.
Glass.
That was the first surprise.
And I think the one that sets up everything else.
14 years on the bottom.
And some of the windows aboard the Fitzgerald were still intact.
Not broken, [music] not clouded.
Panes of glass in frames on a ship that had gone through the worst storm on the lake and hit the bottom hard enough to shatter itself in two.
The cold water had simply held things still.
Anyone who’s followed this channel knows what Superior does.
It’s a vault.
The ship wasn’t rotting.
It was waiting.
Then the robot went to the pilot house, the front of the ship where Msurley and his officers had been at the end where the last radio message had come from.
The bow sits upright.
So the pilot house is the one part of the wreck that looks almost the way it did on the surface.
The windows, the doors, and one of the doors was open.
I’ll tell you exactly what the expedition recorded and no more.
A door on the pilot house was open.
It was not dogged, which is to say the heavy latches that seal a door against the sea on a ship in a storm had not been thrown.
Open and unsecured on the bridge of a ship whose crew had been fighting a gale for most of a day with every reason to keep every door on the vessel shut tight.
That’s it.
That’s what the robot captured.
And I’d ask you to notice the size of it.
A door.
It fits in a single frame of video.
And it’s been argued about ever since because of what it suggests and what it can’t prove.
The obvious reading, the one the expedition itself raised, is that someone opened it, that in the last seconds as the ship went over, someone in the pilot house tried to get out, which would mean that there were seconds, that it wasn’t instantaneous, that at least one man on that bridge understood what was happening and moved.
The other readings are quieter.
The door could have been thrown open by the force of the ship hitting the bottom.
It could have been unlatched in the storm for some ordinary reason and come open in the dive.
A door is a door.
It doesn’t carry a time stamp.
But I keep coming back to it because for 14 years, the official story of the Fitzgerald was that she went so fast that nobody had time to do anything.
No distress call, no boats.
And here on the bridge was a thing that looked like a man doing something.
The 1989 expedition came up with one more finding and it was the opposite of reassuring.
They looked at the damage around the bow in three dimensions and reported that some of it was far too extensive to have been done by the storm.
Something more violent than wind and water had happened to the front of that ship, which could support the Coast Guard’s theory of a bow first dive into the bottom, or the Shaw, or neither.
And it filmed the hatches, the 21 openings along the deck of the bow section, which in 1976 the CURV had found with their covers missing or crumpled or hanging.
In the three-dimensional footage, investigators could finally see how the combings, the raised steel lips around each hatch, had been distorted and in which direction.
Some read that as the covers failing under the weight of boarding seas, as the Coast Guard had said.
Others read it as the covers being blown off from inside when the ship hit the bottom and the air in the holds was driven out.
The same bent steel, two opposite stories.
That’s the pattern of this wreck.
And the robot didn’t break it.
So the robot had gone down to solve the mystery.
And it came back with glass and a door and a bow that was more broken than it should have been.
More evidence.
No verdict.
I should say what the people on the boat did with the door.
They didn’t announce a theory.
The expedition reported the observation and the possible reading and left it there.
But I think about the effect it must have had on that room.
A ship is a machine.
For 14 years, the Fitzgerald had been a machine that failed.
And then there was a door open on the bridge, and it would have been impossible watching it not to think about a hand on the latch.
5 years later, two more expeditions went down in the same summer.
And the story got darker.
In July 1994, a businessman named Frederick Shannon financed his own series of dives in a small submersible from the 25th to the 27th of July.
Seven dives.
The footage he came back with is among the clearest ever taken of the wreck.
On the last dive, he left a memorial plaque near the pilot house.
And on one of those dives in the debris near the wreck, his camera found a man, a crew member, lying on the lake floor, partially clothed, wearing a life jacket, preserved by the cold, as everything down there is preserved.
19 years after the sinking, the first and only time anyone has seen one of the 29.
I’m going to handle that the way the families asked for it to be handled, which is carefully.
He has never been identified and the footage doesn’t allow it.
People online have argued for years about who he might be from, where he was found, and what he was wearing, and none of it rises above a guess.
The Shannon Expedition’s decision to disclose the find, and the use of the footage afterward caused real anger among the families.
There was a sense that the lake had kept their men decently, out of sight, and that a camera had broken that.
I’ll say only what the footage establishes.
He had a life jacket on, which means that at some point on the evening of the 10th of November, 1975, a man aboard the Edund Fitzgerald had time to put one on.
That and the open door.
Two tiny facts, 14 and 19 years after the fact that both say the same thing.
[music] There was time.
Not much, but some.
The same month, a Canadian expedition led by Dr.
Joseph McInness spent part of a six-week Great Lakes survey on the Fitzgerald with Tom Farnquist of the White Fish Point Museum aboard, and Farnquist came up from those dives with a conclusion of his own.
He said that from what he’d seen of the wreckage, it was almost impossible that the ship had broken in two on the surface.
The damage to him said she’d gone down whole and broken when she hit, which is exactly what the Kustoau divers had said she hadn’t done.
The 1994 dives also found the damage was worse than anyone had reported.
And they found the tachinite pellets of iron ore, the Fitzgerald’s cargo scattered across the wreck and the lake floor around it.
Not in the holds, out, which tells you something about the violence of the breakup.
26,000 tons of pellets, each one the size of a marble.
And when the ship came apart, the holds opened and the cargo poured out across the bottom like spilled gravel.
One of the divers that summer, a documentary maker named Rick Mixster, did something I find quietly admirable.
He went to the stern, the upside down section, and searched the flat bottom of the hull, the part that would have struck a shaw if the ship had struck one.
He was looking for scrapes, gouges, any sign of a collision with rock.
He wrote afterward that he found none.
No damage to the bottom, the propeller, or the rudder, which doesn’t kill the Shaw theory because the bow section’s bottom is in the mud, but it took a piece out of it.
In 1995, at the request of the families, divers went down one last time and brought up the ship’s bell.
A replica [music] engraved with 29 names was left in its place.
The original is in the museum at Whitefish Point, and every November on the 10th, it’s rung 29 times.
And then once [music] more for everyone else the lake has taken.
And there’s a footnote about the song that belongs here because it’s about exactly this argument.
When Gordon Lightfoot wrote it in 1976, a few months after the sinking, one line described a hatchway giving way.
That was the Coast Guard’s theory set to [music] music.
And for 30 years, it was the version millions of people absorbed.
In 2010, after years of the families and the researchers telling him the hatch theory blamed the crew for something that was never proved, Lightfoot changed the line when he performed it.
He took the hatch out.
I’m not going to quote either version, but I think it’s remarkable that the most famous account of the wreck was edited [music] by its author because the evidence was still in dispute three and a half decades on.
Lightfoot died in 2023.
He sang it to the end with the new words and then nothing.
In 2006, Ontario amended its heritage law to make the wreck of the Edund Fitzgerald a protected site.
No dives, no expeditions without the province’s permission, and the province has not given it.
The wreck is treated formally as a grave.
The 1995 bell dive was the last time anyone saw her 31 years ago.
And the ship is not inert even now.
Her fuel tanks went down with her and the government lists her among the wrecks that could one day pollute the lake if the steel gives way.
[music] So the same law that keeps the cameras out also keeps the engineers out.
And nobody can say with confidence what condition the hull is in because the last person to look did so in 1995.
One of the men who dived her in 1994 was asked around the 50th anniversary last November whether there’d be another expedition.
He said, “Not in our lifetimes.”
There’s a thing the 1994 divers say in the documentary made around the 50th anniversary that I can’t get out of my head.
One of them described being on the wreck and not knowing it.
Flying the submersible along a wall of steel in the dark, looking for the ship and realizing that the wall was the ship.
That’s the scale of her and the scale of the dark.
You can be touching the Edund Fitzgerald and not be able to see enough of her to know it.
So, six expeditions in all, 1976, 1980, 1989, two in 1994, 1995, 56 hours of CURV footage, 42 hours from Shannon, 3 days of the robot with two eyes, and at the end of all of it, three theories, exactly as there were in 1977.
And the wreck still refusing to say which.
Last November was the 50th anniversary.
At Whitefish Point, the bell was rung at the Mariners’s church in Detroit, the one in the song, the bell was rung.
Families of the crew came, some of them the grandchildren of men who never came home and stood by the lake.
And in all the coverage, in all the retrospectives, nobody could tell them what had happened to their men because nobody knows.
50 years of the most studied shipwreck on the lakes and the anniversary ended the way the search did with a question.
Let me lay it out the way I laid it out for myself.
A ship that was the biggest on the lakes with music playing through the locks.
A storm, a list, two lost radars, and a captain saying he was holding his own.
A gap between two radar sweeps in which 29 men vanished without a word.
A wreck in two pieces 170 feet apart with the middle of the ship crushed between them.
The Coast Guard says bad hatches.
The industry says a shaw.
The sailors say the waves.
A robot 14 years later finds glass that never broke and a door that was never closed.
A submarine 5 years after that finds a man who had time to put on a life jacket.
And a diver who checked the bottom of the stern for the scrape of a shaw and found nothing.
Every one of those is on the record.
None of them is a theory of mine.
And together they add up to a wreck that has been photographed, filmed in three dimensions, dived by submarine, and studied by the best investigators on the lakes.
And that still after 50 years will not say how it died.
Once you see it that way, you can’t unsee it.
I’ve tried.
I hear the song, which you’re hearing in your head right now, and I used to picture the storm.
Now I picture the door open and unlatched on a bridge in the dark with the water coming up the windows.
It fits in one frame of video.
It’s the most eloquent thing the lake has ever shown us about that night.
And it doesn’t say a word.
Now, if you’re waiting for me to tell you what’s being covered up, I’ll give you the honest version.
There are people who believe the footage has been suppressed.
That the Shannon tapes or the 1989 tapes show more than has ever been released.
And it’s true that not all of it has been made public and that the families have with good reason asked that images of the crew never be shown.
But I don’t think there’s a hidden answer on those tapes.
The people who’ve seen all of it.
The Coast Guard, the museum, the divers disagree with each other as much as the rest of us.
If the footage settled the question, the argument would have ended in 1994.
It didn’t.
What’s actually going on is quieter and I think stranger.
The Fitzgerald is one of the most documented shipwrecks in the world.
And it’s documented in a way that makes the mystery worse, not better.
Every expedition went down to find the answer.
Every expedition came back with a detail that fit one theory and cut against another.
Glass that survived a storm.
A door that was open.
A bow too broken for weather.
A stern with no scrape on it.
A man with time to put on a life jacket on a ship that supposedly sank too fast for anyone to move.
The lake didn’t hide the evidence.
It handed it over in pieces.
Each one true.
And the pieces don’t add up to one story.
And since 2006, that’s where it stays.
Not because anyone is hiding her, because the people who have the right to decide, the families, the province, the museum, decided that enough cameras had been down there and that 29 men who had been seen by one submarine in 1994 did not need to be seen again.
So, here’s what I’m left with.
Not answers, questions that I don’t think anyone can answer now, and that the law says no one will try to.
The door, who opened it?
Was it open before she went down?
Or did the bottom do it?
If someone in the pilot house had the seconds to reach for it, why wasn’t there a second on the radio?
The bow.
Something did more damage to it than the storm.
Was it the lake floor at the end of a dive from the surface?
Or was there damage before she sank from something she hit?
The stern.
Mixster found no scrape.
The bow’s bottom is buried.
Is the answer to the Shaw questions sitting in the mud under the front of the ship where no camera can reach?
The middle 200 f feet of the ship are simply gone, scattered between the bow and the stern.
What happened to it?
Tells you everything about how she broke.
Has anyone ever mapped that debris field the way the Titanics was mapped?
Piece by piece to reconstruct the sequence.
Not with the technology of 1994, with what exists now.
The man in the life jacket.
He’s been seen once.
He’s been argued about for 30 years.
His family, if they’ve [music] guessed, have never said.
Is he still where he was?
And the one I keep coming back to.
The last footage of the Edund Fitzgerald was shot in 1995, 31 years ago.
The lake preserves, but it doesn’t stop.
The steel is thinning.
The silt is settling.
The collapse sections are collapsing further.
The expeditions of 1976 and 1994 already show the difference.
The later images full of silt and new collapses the earlier ones don’t have.
If the answer is down there in the door, in the bow, in the debris, it is being covered a little more every year.
And by the law of the province and by the wishes of the families, nobody is going to go and look.
The museum at Whitefish Point has become the keeper of all of it.
The bell, the footage, the models.
The lighthouse that went dark that night stands beside it.
People drive to the end of that road on a spit of sand at the corner of the lake to stand in a room with the bell and look out at the water where 17 mi off she lies.
It’s as close as anyone gets now.
It’s as close as anyone is going to get.
[music] Which means the Fitzgerald may be the one wreck on this channel where the window has already closed.
Not because we couldn’t see, because we decided not to.
And I’m not sure that’s the wrong decision.
I keep thinking about the people on the griling on the last day of August 1989 with the weather holding and the robots cameras coming up the cable for the final time.
14 years of not knowing and 3 days of finally looking.
And what they got after all that waiting was a pane of unbroken glass and an open door.
Not the answer.
The thing that makes you need the answer more.
The next time you hear the song, and you will give it one extra second.
Picture the pilot house upright in the mud in the dark 530 ft down.
The windows with their glass still in them.
And the door standing open exactly as a robot found it in 1989 and as it has stood every day since with nobody coming to see.
29 men, one door, 50 years, no answer.
If you knew someone aboard her, if you were on one of the expeditions, if you sailed the lakes in November, or if you have a theory about that door that the rest of us haven’t heard, tell me in the comments.
I read them.
And if there’s a wreck near you that everyone knows the name of and nobody has ever understood, I want to hear about that, too.
I have a feeling this isn’t the last time we go down.
I’ll see you in the next one.
